


The 5 Times Peter Was Perfectly Fine

by TrashFan



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:54:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashFan/pseuds/TrashFan
Summary: ...and the one time he realized he wasn't.Peter Parker didn't have an eating disorder. Anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, none of them fit. So when certain avengers start to realize something might be going on with him, Peter has to find a way to prove to himself and everyone else that everything was fine. He was fine.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 134





	1. Health

**Author's Note:**

> This work purposely represents disordered thoughts and bad, outdated information surrounding eating disorders. It's not supposed to be ~right~. This work will not mention any numbers of calorie amounts or weight. Read the tags for triggers and take care of yourself <3

Peter was simultaneously relieved and embarrassed. He was glad that nothing was actually wrong with him and the way things had been for him recently wasn't an actual issue. He was fine and had been making mountains out of molehills; he wouldn't be forced to change his behavior. But he also felt a sting of shame that he had even considered the possibility he might have these problems. These girls his teacher was talking about had real, life-threatening illnesses and there Peter was with his casual eccentricities. He let his eyes unfocus as he stared straight ahead at the slideshow projected on the whiteboard.

  
  


_ Anorexia Nervosa, characterized by self-starvation and excessive weight loss _

  * Refusal to maintain body weight at or above minimally normal weight for height and body type
  * Intense fear of gaining weight or being “fat”
  * Feeling “fat” or overweight despite dramatic weight loss
  * Loss of menstrual periods
  * Extreme concern with body weight
  * Typically occurs in females shortly after puberty or later in adolescence



None of those things were really Peter. As his health teacher went on about refusing meals and feeling cold all the time and hair growing all over your body, the teen felt more and more silly. Yeah he skipped breakfast, but most kids he knew did that. And yeah he was preoccupied with staying lean and fit, but he had to be in prime condition to do his spidermanning. And he hadn’t lost that much weight recently, he wasn’t the bag of skin and bones that was projected in front of him. The teacher clicked to the next slide and Peter hoped that no one would notice the redness burning at his cheeks.

  
  


_ Bulimia Nervosa, characterized by a secretive cycle of binge eating followed by purging _

  * Feeling out of control during binge episodes
  * Ashamed of their eating habits, try to binge in private
  * Are often healthy weight or slightly overweight
  * Use of laxatives, over-exercising, vomiting, or restricting food to compensate for binges
  * Mild bulimia: 1-3 episodes a week, Moderate bulimia: 4-7 episodes a week, Severe bulimia: 8-14 episodes a week, Extreme bulimia: 14+ episodes a week



Peter blanched at the last bit. He had only made himself puke a handful of times and it had been at least a month since the last time, he couldn’t imagine doing it 14 times a week. Yeah he lost control of his eating sometimes, but making up for it was just putting his superhero training back on track. How many times had he heard people talking about working off the calories they ate? That’s all he was doing, just in his own way.

  
  


_ Binge Eating Disorder, characterized by episodes of eating significantly more food in a short period of time than most people would normally eat _

  * Eating extremely fast 


  * Eating beyond feeling full 


  * Bingeing in secret


  * Experience of extreme guilt or shame over binge episodes


  * No compensatory behaviors (as in bulimia)


  * Are often overweight or obese


  * At least once a week for at least 3 months



So yeah, Peter overate sometimes. And he always felt like shit about it, hiding the empty wrappers and packages under his bed until he could take them to the dumpster undetected. But he was a healthy weight and it didn’t happen every week. And besides, technically speaking he did “engage in compensatory behaviors” some of the time. So this wasn’t him either. As the teacher clicked to the next slide and began to explain treatment options in a bored monotone, Peter sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Not anorexia, not bulimia, not BED. So that meant he was fine. He was fine and he could keep going on like he had been without a problem.

A small voice speaking from a long-neglected corner of his mind tried to tell him that what he’d been doing was a lot of things, but it wasn’t normal. Normal didn’t mean tracking calories compulsively, getting up to check his app in the middle of the night if he thought he forgot to enter that bite of May’s sandwich he’d tried. Normal didn’t mean tri-daily weigh-ins on his aunt’s old analog scale. Normal didn’t mean pinching his stomach after every meal, reminding himself of how tight his spidersuit was every time someone offered him seconds. Normal didn’t mean swinging from eating only fruit and vegetables one day to inhaling three quarts of ice cream the next. After a year of spiraling into more and more intense thoughts and habits, he hadn’t ended up at “normal.”

But that voice was too quiet to be paid much attention. Just like he’d done every day for the past countless days, Peter pushed those thoughts aside. Because it was literally written in black and white on the board in front of him: he was fine. Everything was fine. He had to be fine.


	2. Carbohydrates

“So you really didn’t see him coming?”

“Of course I didn’t, I was busy picking up your slack!”

“Oh shut up, you know that it was-”

“Hey now guys, you gotta-”

Peter smiled at the general din surrounding him. The Avengers had been called to stop a group of steroid-pumped terrorists wreaking havoc on the streets of Brooklyn and Peter had provided his usual service of civilian evacuation and shooting webs to tangle people up. It had gone down early enough in the evening that after the injury patching and debrief at the tower, they’d decided to have a group dinner of Italian catering. It was nice. Kind of.

Karen’s count of calories burnt during the fight was lower than the teen had been expecting, so while the rest of his team (especially those with enhanced metabolisms) carboloaded heaping plates of pasta, Peter focused on taking small portions each time he filled his plate, which he had done four times now. Mr. Stark, Sam, Clint, and Natasha had each had two plates, Thor and Bruce were working on their thirds, and Captain America was at the catering table filling up his fifth. Peter had counted. And while it was true that his first helping was the otherwise-neglected salad and the other three were single servings of pasta, he wasn’t allowed to be tied for most plates. Especially when the person he’d be tying with looked like Cap did. And besides, every time he stood up for a refill he could feel a burning embarrassment as everyone’s eyes bore into his back.

Pete took a deep breath and tried to focus on the conversation around him. The group had moved on while he was zoned out and was now talking about something with new tech. He tried to focus.

“...and the calibration just feels off, won’t be ready for action for another month,” Tony was saying.

“You built mark one in a cave in under two weeks! How is an update to small equipment going to take longer than that?” Natasha grilled.

“Because I want these to be  _ good. _ Even with the kid’s help it’s slow moving.”

“Parker, be honest,” Peter straightened up at Natasha’s mention of him. “Is Tony actually doing work down there or is he just fucking around with thrusters like usual?”

He smiled. “Uh, we usually manage to focus. But I’m only in here twice a week, so…”

“So if the spider baby’s only tutoring you two days a week, that leaves the other five to get no work done,” she smiled.

“I didn’t say we got real work done, just that we  _ focused  _ on messing around,” Peter beamed as his comment made Clint snort and Sam roll his eyes.

“Hey now, that’s not fair. I screw around most of the time, not all the time. That’s an important distinction,” Tony raised his eyebrows for emphasis. “And Pepper has Friday shut me out of the lab after 3 am, so I can’t pull all-nighters anymore.”

The banter continued to change subjects and Peter relaxed into his seat a little, hoping he wouldn’t be called on again any time soon. As the Captain sat back down with his new helping, Peter gulped. Everyone was busy chatting, they wouldn’t notice if he snuck off to get a refill, right? He knew that he shouldn’t, but that didn’t stop his body from dragging him towards the serving table and filling his plate higher than he had the other four times combined. As he slunk back into his seat, he shifted his diet soda to obstruct the view of his food to a good amount of the people around him. Without thinking he twirled a long coil of spaghetti around his fork, stabbed a bulbous meatball, and popped it in his mouth. 

As he was chewing, Peter did some quick math on how many calories this whole meal would be and he felt his heart sink. Way too many even for his lenient days. Enough that if he wanted to avoid ripping the stitches on his suit he would have to cut his calories down for the next two or three days, which he was not looking forward to. He knew if he stopped eating now he could do a lot of damage control, but even as he thought it he shoved a forkful of chicken parmesan into his mouth. The ball was already in motion and he was helpless to stop it. At this point he wasn’t even sure if he was actually hungry or not, not that it mattered. With every bite he felt a detached floatiness set in. Five minutes later the food was gone and he just wanted to lie down, curl up, and sleep the guilt off.

“You okay Peter?”

The teen’s head snapped up to look at the speaker. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

Bruce quirked an eyebrow and leaned almost immeasurably closer across the table. “You just seem a little quieter than usual. And you look a little pale.”

Peter was thankful that by this point the discussion had splintered into several side-conversations and no one else seemed to be paying much attention. “I’m good, just a bit cold. Spider DNA temperature regulation, remember?” he gave what he hoped was a passable chuckle. In truth he was feeling cramped and a bit overheated, but Bruce didn’t need to know that.

“Okay buddy, if you’re sure,” the older man said, looking unconvinced. “Let me know if you need anything.”

The boy opened his mouth to reply, but at that point Thor leaned over two seats to thwap Bruce’s shoulder for attention, leaving Peter to retreat back into his thoughts. He could already feel himself bloating and he shuddered when he tried to calculate how much food weight this would add to the scale tomorrow. Part of him wanted to excuse himself to the bathroom to undo some of the damage, but he’d been good about not doing that recently and didn’t want to mess things up. Besides, doing that at the tower felt almost sacrilegious. God he was tired of fucking up like this. 

As Peter absentmindedly pinched at his stomach rolls he couldn’t help but think back to last spring. He’d made the mistake of eating a gigantic meal with the team before going down to the lab with Mr. Stark to do a suit fitting. When he squeezed himself into the new spandex he felt like a ten-pound sausage in five-pound casing. His stomach was distended and he could swear his skin was bursting at the seams. His mentor asked if the new upgrades fit alright, and in that moment Peter made a decision. Instead of getting the suit altered he sucked in his gut, told Mr. Stark that everything was perfect, and vowed to slim down and shape up. Well here he was. What a difference a year makes, huh.

The boy was pulled back to reality when a sharp pain made him realize he’d been digging his nails into the flesh of his stomach. He let go of himself and swallowed dully. He wanted to be out of here. He needed to climb onto May’s treadmill and go until he felt like a human again, but he also needed to go straight to bed and curl up for thirteen hours. He wanted to be distracted and pulled out of his head by someone, but at the same time he didn’t want anyone to speak to him or look at him or realize he existed. 

After a while of sitting there waiting for the team to be done bickering -- they always seemed to forget that school nights meant something to their youngest member and maybe they should wrap things up -- people finally began to stand and gather their things. Peter breathed a sigh of relief as he located his backpack and moved towards the elevator. He pretended not to notice Bruce looking at him, a furrow set deeply in his brow. Dr. Banner had no reason to worry, Peter was fine. Everyone overeats sometimes, and he’d already decided he wasn’t going to purge it. Everything was fine.


	3. Training

“Training for the ballet, eh Peter?”

Peter stifled a laugh as he regained his balance from the spin he’d done to evade the oncoming punch.

“Was that it? Did I do it right?”

The teen nodded at Steve. “Yeah, you did.”

Cap smiled, way too proud of himself for a single successful pop culture reference. While the man was distracted, Pete crouched and charged his opponent’s legs in an attempt to knock him off balance. But instead of trying to keep his footing like the kid had counted on, Steve sprung forward over the spiderling’s low shoulders and into a somersault. Before he could catch his bearings, Peter was knocked to the ground by a hit square to the side of his head. He winced and lifted his hands, the smile still left on his face.

“Okay, mercy, mercy.”

Pairing the team up for sparring was always a hard task, because without tech their ability levels were much less even. In general they tried to keep people separated on whether or not they were genetically enhanced, which led to Peter and Steve being put together once every couple sessions. Cap still had to pull his punches, but it was better than him just walloping on a de-suited Tony. Pete had a suspicion that the team would reassign him if they knew just how badly he was bruised and aching after these sessions, which is why he didn’t tell them. Monitoring his fractured ribs in secret was worth being seen as an equal.

Peter took the hand offered to him and shook himself as he stood up. Everyone else had made their way to the edges of the training room at the end of the session while he had insisted on one more round, so Cap and Peter were the last to join the fray.

“...I’m telling you, when Pepper is drunk she...”

“...the Russian stereotypes you people grow up with…”

“...c’mon now Clint, that whole thing was rigged and you know it…”

The teen let the various conversations swirl around him without really latching onto any one of them. He felt a warmth glow in his stomach as he dismissed notifications on his phone in one hand and guzzled water from the other. Any issues he might have as Peter Parker of Midtown Tech or as Spiderman having to wrap himself in spandex and save the world didn’t exist here. With the team he didn’t have to be entirely one or the other; he could pick and choose the pieces of both sides and be the not-quite-teenager, not-quite-superhero mismash he was.

“Nice job out there Underoos,” interrupted his thoughts.

“Thanks Mr. Stark,” Peter put his stuff down to slide his shoes on.

“Think you took enough hits from Cap? We could always string you up like a speed bag.”

He smiled uncertainly. He was still getting used to being razzed by Mr. Stark, but he liked it. “Hey now, I got some good jabs in too!”

“I know you did. You dodged much more punches than you took, which is impressive with that guy. God knows he’s wiped the floor with me enough times,” Tony said.

“Thanks. He’s used to fighting people taller than me so his calibration can be off sometimes if that makes sense. It’s easier when I adjust for that.”

“Huh, the more you know. Anyway, about the nanobot upgrade we were working on Thursday, I realized what the problem is,” he transitioned without grace.

Peter walked with Mr. Stark out of the training room and down the length of the hallway before he realized he’d left his phone and water sitting on the mats. Wanting to absorb every last second he could with his mentor, he stood leaning against the wall until the conversation was over and they’d confirmed when their next lab session would be. As he returned to the gym, Peter heard three distinct voices.

“...not that I’ve noticed, why?” Clint was saying.

“He hasn’t been packing as much of a punch lately, I just wondered if he seemed off to anyone else who-”

“Actually pays attention to their surroundings,” Bruce finished Steve’s sentence for him. “I’ve noticed some things, yes.”

“Like what?” Steve pressed.

“I, er. I don’t want to say until I’m sure. But the kid seems distracted lately,” Bruce said.

Clint cut in, “he’s a 16 year old orphan Avenger who worships the ground Tony Stark walks on. Are we really expecting him to come out well-adjusted?”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Bruce chuckled and turned to Steve. “How much difference are we talking about?”

“Not too much, he hits harder some days and weaker others. I don’t exactly stare at the kid, but I think he might’ve lost some muscle mass as well.”

“Have you asked him about it?” Clint asked.

“Being told you’re not strong enough isn’t fun, so no. And it isn’t all the time either, some days he’s almost at full force. He’s probably just distracted, I’m sure his life is busy with school and instagram and everything.”

“Ah yes, ‘kids these days,’” Clint laughed.

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course Grandpa.”

“Oh come on now, you…”

They went on to bicker about if old age counted if you weren’t awake for most of it, but Peter didn’t hear any of that from his spot around the corner. The lump in his throat felt like it went all the way down to his feet, rooting him in place. People had noticed. Steve had looked at his body and seen a difference. Part of him felt a swell of pride that he was noticeably smaller but a bigger part of him wanted to crawl under a rock and never be seen again. People weren’t supposed to acknowledge that anything had changed because that meant they noticed his body when it was bigger. Of course from the captain’s perspective bigger was always better, with the way he’d grown up. It made sense he wouldn’t understand how people were supposed to look nowadays.

Peter was pretty sure his weak hits weren’t from muscle loss anyway. It was just lack of fuel, so he reluctantly decided that after today he wouldn’t fast before training sessions anymore. He’d miss the feeling of being light and spry while sparring, but he’d have to make the sacrifice to keep Steve from worrying. No one was supposed to worry, and if they pried into his habits they’d get the wrong idea. He knew what his behaviors looked like from the outside and he really didn’t want to freak anyone out. They didn’t need that.

The conversation died down and Peter sensed movement, so he sprung himself ten feet backward down the hallway and walked back toward the training room, making sure his footsteps were audible. As he turned the corner he felt a chill down his spine. Clint and Steve were looking away and making themselves busy, but Bruce held his head high. He was looking straight at Peter, making longer eye contact than the two had ever had with each other. Peter saw two things there; the first was a sense of inquiry, like he was questioning what exactly he was looking at. The second was much more unsettling. It was concern verging on pity, like he already knew the answer.


	4. Numbers

Every five seconds or so, Peter had to remind himself not to suck in his stomach. If he pulled it in, the suit would be tight and he would look even more distended than usual. But Mr. Stark poking at his midsection and pulling measuring tape every which way was making him violently uncomfortable. Fittings for the spidersuit were worse than combat with criminals; at least he didn’t have to save face while throwing punches. 

Peter wished he could say he tried not to see the numbers, but in all honesty he was craning his neck as subtly as possible to catch a glimpse of the measurements Mr. Stark was scribbling down. Not that he needed more figures to keep track of. He knew he was supposed to be some STEM prodigy, but the sheer quantity of numbers he had to keep track of felt crushing as they piled up over the years. Pounds when he discovered his aunt’s scale, calories when 4th grade health taught that a pound was 3,500 calories, daily steps when he received a StarkWatch for Christmas, and jean sizes when May made the offhand comment that he was growing out of his clothes faster than she could buy them. Now as he read the measurements of each part of his body, he added inches to the list of units that ruled his thoughts. He had no frame of reference for what was normal for someone his age, but he knew inherently that his numbers were much too high.

And just like that, Peter was lost in calculations. He recognized things were happening around him, and he continued to move and speak, but he wasn’t absorbing his surroundings. Somehow he ended up finished with the lab session and in the Mercedes with Mr. Stark on the way back to Queens. How exactly had that happened? Happy usually brought him home, so the change had probably been explained at some point. But it was hard to pay too much attention while running different scenarios of projected weight loss at different calories in/calories out plans. He fucking hated the numbers.

“Earth to Underoos?”

“Hmm?” Peter forced himself into the present moment.

“I asked if you’re okay?”

“Yeah, ‘sall good.”

“You sure?”

The teen straightened up and glanced over at Mr. Stark. “Yeah, I’m good. Why do you ask?”

Tony shrugged. “Just making sure.”

The pair drove in silence for a few minutes before Tony made an unexpected turn onto a side street.

“Uh, Mr. Stark? My place is that way.”

“I know,” the man said as he pulled into a parking lot, “but since I have May’s blessing to have you out for a few more hours, I thought we could make the best of it.”

Peter looked around and blanched when he saw the  _ Lorenzo’s Pizzeria  _ sign. His favorite. Shit.

“That’s really nice of you sir, but I’m kinda tired after our work and I have to-”

Tony held up a hand to stop him. “You’re a good intern, a good teammate, and a good kid. I do a piss poor job of showing appreciation as literally anyone in my life will attest. You’ve seemed really down recently and when I didn’t know what to do Pepper said I should tell you good job more often and give you individualized attention outside of the lab. She said I should tell you this shit explicitly, so that’s what I’m trying to do. I thought it might be nice to grab an early dinner before I drop you back off,” he finished unceremoniously, shifting his weight in his seat.

Peter sat there with his mouth open.  _ Mr. Stark _ had started to notice his emo bullshit? That said a lot, he really needed to start being more careful. “Thank you, I uh…” he trailed off, unsure what to do.

“We can go somewhere else,” Tony said quickly, “I just know you’ve mentioned this place a few times. But if you’re not in the mood for pizza we can get something different.”

The teen knew he should refuse the meal or at least suggest somewhere with more reasonable portion sizes, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Mr. Stark was looking at him with so much nervous expectation. He had been worried about Peter, talked to Pepper about it, and taken the time out of his crazy schedule to plan a way to cheer Peter up. The idea of turning Mr. Stark down felt like kicking a puppy.

“No, Lorenzo’s is great. Thank you.”

Peter opened his door and gulped as the outside air hit him. He could smell the garlic crust already. Would Mr. Stark want to split a pizza or would they be getting individuals? If they had to share one it would probably end up being a meat lover’s or combination, which was horrifying. But if they got personal pizzas it’d be more obvious if Peter only ate one slice. Either way he was fucked. And that wasn’t taking into account the cheesy bread sticks that Peter literally had dreams about. They were lethal; if he ate one he ate six and then he was screwed. He tried to calm himself with a deep breath, but he started salivating at the scent of melted cheese. The teen forced one foot in front of the other until he had made it through the front doors. Since it was 5:30 on a Thursday, the pair was seated immediately.

“How’s school been?”

“Good,” Peter swallowed.

“Classes aren’t too easy?”

“No.” He felt a wave of guilt as Mr. Stark nodded to himself. The man was clearly so far out of his comfort zone and Peter was rewarding his efforts with one-word answers. He tried again. “I mean, I’m keeping my 4.0, but I’ve had to do some extra credit work.”

“In what classes?”

“Art.”

Mr. Stark chuckled, “really? Art? Just glob on some paint and say it represents existential dread. Boom, an A.”

“Not with Ms. Galloway. She takes herself way too seriously, says we need to ‘push our creative boundaries’ or whatever. She’s insane.”

“How so?”

Peter exhaled and felt himself loosen a little. Normal, he could do normal. As he launched into the story of how he’d received a C for “being too crisp,” he realized it had been a long time since he’d let himself babble. It felt good, like shaking off sleep. Aside from a quick interruption for the pair to order drinks (a coke zero and black coffee respectively), they went back and forth without pause for a solid fifteen minutes. Grades lead to the monotony of college applications which lead to MIT stories, and before he knew it Peter was fighting to hold in a snort as he cackled at Tony’s tale of streaking through the campus library.

When Peter took a long drink of his soda to calm down, Mr. Stark grabbed his menu and began flipping through the pages. Peter felt his mood sink as he remembered where they were and what they were doing. Time to order food and eat all while holding a steady conversation like a normal human being. He could do that, right? As he opened his menu his eyes widened. One of the many reasons Lorenzo’s was a no-go was that they were small and independently owned, which meant their nutrition facts weren’t listed on the menu or online. Peter had gotten pretty good at estimating calories, but he was never really sure. That was, until today.

The teen felt a knot form in his throat as he examined the updated menu. There, in small print next to each item, were the calories. In most situations Peter would be relieved that the guesswork was taken out of things, but staring him in the face was the fact that he’d grossly misjudged Lorenzo’s food. How the hell was everything so caloric? Peter could usually pick up any food from a grocery store shelf and guess within 10 or 20 calories, but across the board he’d underestimated Lorenzo’s. Did this place dump butter on everything without Peter noticing? How many extra calories had he consumed here? How many times had he gone over budget without realizing it? And if he was wrong about this, was he wrong about other small restaurants and homemade food?

He couldn’t eat this. He couldn’t eat any of this. Mr. Stark had just wanted to have a nice, normal meal out and Peter couldn’t even manage that. Peter went through options in his head of ways he could eat a pizza -- purging, running it off, cutting back for the next three days -- but he knew he couldn’t do it. He felt his jaw tighten, resolved to shield him from any food that might come his way. To add insult to injury, Mr. Stark chose that exact moment to speak.

“What’re you thinking? Are we splitting a pie or getting our own?”

Peter looked down at his wringing hands. “No.”

“What was that?” Tony asked, looking up from his menu.

“I’m really sorry, but I can’t.”

Tony’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s my treat kiddo, you should know by now that there’s no way in hell I let you pay for stuff.”

Peter shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I feel sick to my stomach.”

“Are you gonna puke?”

He had to stop himself from laughing at the double meaning. “No, I’m fine. I think I just need to go home.”

“Oh. Okay, of course, let’s go.”

Peter couldn’t be sure of it, but he thought he saw a flash of hurt in Mr. Stark’s eyes before his expression morphed into concern. Peter felt guilt swell in his gut. Four days ago he could blow through a chicken sandwich, twelve oreos, three yogurt parfaits, and four servings of mac and cheese for an after school snack; now he couldn’t handle a normal meal with his mentor. As he watched Mr. Stark slide on his jacket and put objectively too much cash on the table for their drinks, Peter felt himself begin to drift away. What little choice he’d had in the situation disappeared entirely and he was stuck outside of himself watching a movie play out. He could hear himself mumbling an incoherent string of apologies as he shuffled out of the restaurant. With a detached wave of awareness, Peter saw the scene for what it was: a hunched, red-cheeked boy having an internal breakdown in public after pushing away one of the most important people in his life. In that moment, Peter didn’t recognize the 16 year old boy he saw. He was scared. He was panicked. He was small. 

He was sick.


End file.
